


Dance me outside

by redux (sian22)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Fools Rush In - Freeform, M/M, Ma Rogers to the rescue, Multi, My First Work in This Fandom, OmegaBucky, Please be gentle, Sleep Deprivation, benji is a greedy pig, brock is a wreck, growth spurts, omegaBrock, rated f for fluff, warning: Kenny Loggins lullabies ahead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 06:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5818567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/pseuds/redux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Makes total sense in retrospect.  Of course super-soldier babies have super growth spurts.  Momma just isn't processing right at the moment....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance me outside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Weirdlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weirdlet/gifts), [Andartha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andartha/gifts).



> Because I cannot get sleep-deprived, omega!Brock out of my head. A little exercise in exorcism. And a huge, huge thank you to Weirdlet (and Andartha) for her absolutely wonderful 'Fools Rush In'.. and permission to gift this piece.

Should never have said yes to Barnes. 

 

Brock shakes his head.  Sure a little lullaby sounds like a plan.   Benji is not so fast to drop back again these days and lord knows every peaceful moment counts.  

 

But seriously…this?   _Kenny Loggins?!_

 

He’d never have thunk a whole album could be that _sweet_.  So cute his teeth and looser fillings actually hurt.   So cloying that _shit_ Hydra should have it on speed dial in the Room.  Happy saccharine sweetness to make the strongest man dissolve howling into his callused, opponent-ripping hands. 

 

Far be it from him to deprive James from a hard won _opinion_ but he’d never have expected it of his sister-mate.   Then again, on quiet, sleep-deprived reflection, buzzing lips across a soft downy scalp, it weirdly makes kind of sense.  There’s a little Frank in the honey-voice and whole lotta innocent world of ’39 in the lyrics. 

 

They’d made it through “All the Pretty Little Ponies’ to “Neverland” and now the lilting guitar of the title track is winding its way through the quiet of the apartment.    Steve is humming along as he washes up the dinner dishes.  Barnes is warbling off key, down the hall, dealing with the little guy’s latest diaper bomb. 

 

Woohoo..Saturday night in the nursery.  

 

Brock would laugh but actually it feels almost kind of right.   He sits and lets the lyrics wash over and through his barely turning brain. 

 

 

_‘Christopher Robin and I walked along_

_under branches lit up by the moon._

_Posing our questions to owl and eeyore_

_as our days disappeared all too soon._

_But I've wandered much further today than I should_

_and I can't seem to find my way back to the wood.’_

 

_“So help me if you can_

_I've got to get back_

_To the House at Pooh Corner by one_

_You'd be surprised_

_There's so much to be done_

_Count all the bees in the hive_

_Chase all the clouds from the sky_

_Back to the days of Christopher Robin and Pooh.”_

 

 

 

The song ends, the album ends:  Stark’s way-too mensa’d Smartv moves faux innocently on to Raffi and there is he, one minute crooning to the little guy, the next a total mess.

 

_Jesus fuck…_

 

Benji lies heavy in his arms and one shitload of baggage lies heavy his heart.    Tears are streaming hot salt through his three-day stubble and he is hugging Benji close and rocking, sobbing incoherently, unable to put into words the emotion that is just _slaying_ him.

 

“Brock?” 

 

Rogers places a plate gingerly in the draining tray---loud, unexpected noises make all four of them a little scared---and looks over at his baby’s mom.   “Everything ok?”

 

Brock is shaking his head, mute hot distress just pouring off in waves, unable to say a word.  The sheer monumental weight of _grief, love, need, regret_ blocks up in his throat.

 

Musta looked bad and sounded worse cuz suddenly Steve is literally sprinting across the room, full panic mode, shouting at Jarvis to tell him if the baby’s vitals are ok.

 

“Master Benjamin is asleep Captain.” 

 

Rogers screeches to a halt, deflated and relieved, torn between reassuring himself that Jarvis is correct and not waking the piglet up.  How the little monster can sleep through his momma’s snotty shaking and hiccuping is anybody’s guess.

 

Yup Benji’s just asleep and Brock is just losing it. 

 

Again.  

 

From a song. 

 

 

 

Steve is on his knees, a look of bewilderment on his face that would have been comical if hadn’t been too real.    Muttering about trying to remember if he ever knew infant cpr and dammit they should take some _training_.  Even rattled he is still respectful of the other man’s boundaries.  His hands are not quite upon Brock’s knees.  Not quite.   The older omega is trying to calm down, flush the filthy rush of emotion down a hole surreptitiously, quickly; like a particularly pungent change.

 

“For fuck’s sake would someone tell me why Brock is crying!?”   Barnes has hustled in. all ruffled porcupine, and embarrassingly the whole thing has to be repeated.

“I believe Mister Rumlow has slept only eight hours in the last forty-eight.”   Jarvis observes dryly from on high; somewhere near the smoke detector and beside a mysterious splodge of Nutella no one has taken the time to notice. 

 

 _That much?!_ Feels more like eight in 480 from where he’s sitting, bleary and teary, covered in cool, sour wet because dammit crying that hard makes his milk let down. _Again._

And since f-ing when did a few days of sleepless nights make him so loopy he breaks _before the team_?

 

Benji on the other hand has slept placidly through it all.  Different day, same cycle.  Pooped.  Woke up. Protested the uncomfortable state of the universe and been changed by his Dad and then fed by his Mom.  And his other mom.   Went back to sleep, blissfully ignorant of the fuss he’d caused. 

 

Lucky little punk. 

 

Barnes is now the one crooning softly, ploughing slow metal circles on his aching back.  “Hey babe, what’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing…” he protests after the hiccuping and tears have finally stopped.   But then, for some hormone-fueled, fuckwitted reason he does not understand he opens his mouth and mumbles out the _truth_.  

 

Something about the words and his battered blue copy of  ‘ _Now We are Six’_ …about how it’s somewhere in the apartment he hasn’t  been back to and he really _really_ needs kind of now.  Something of his own.   Something of his (and Benji’s too) to make him feel not so very lost in the apartment that is _theirs_ ,  Steve and Bucky’s, because their clothes and kit and scent are in every room and still Brock’s few pieces  (neatly ordered because that is the only way he can handle the pile of liquid crap he has landed in)  are confined to the nursery and sitting room. 

 

Barnes and Rogers share a look.   One might be a little accusatory and one might a little sheepish. 

 

“I’m fine.” He growls with the barest show of menacing teeth.  Still soft and low because ‘Must not disturb the Asset’ has been swiftly and neatly replaced in the circuitry by ‘Must not disturb the Greedy Pig’.

 

Hey..he can handle this.  When the mission starts to blow to hell you adjust the goals.

 

Three weeks, six weeks, three months, six months.  The major growth spurts that the kindly but slightly-disapproving nurse told him ‘bout on discharge seem to be true.   Sure..easy peasy.  Five, six days tops.   Intel always helps except that this baby is half a Super Soldier and it feels like Benji has been latched _every fucking, waking moment_ for the past three days.   The thought of doing this for three more makes him want to hurl.  What is he?  A slightly (ok very) cranky cow?

 

From somewhere in the depths of 1940 Steve dredges up his mom.  What doesn’t Ma Rogers  know about babying, this century or next?     “I can give him a bottle at midnight. Formula holds 'em longer.”

 

He and Barnes stare, gobsmacked, at those gorgeous, but oh so serious baby blues in shock.

 

“Buck can feed him at 3.  You can sleep ‘til 5.”  

 

 _Oh gods…please…yes._     One bottle of formula surely wouldn’t harm the little guy and he would get to sleep for more than an hour or two at a stretch?  He could kiss Rogers for the suggestion but that would implode their careful and carefully defended boundaries all to hell.  He settles for a lopsided, still slightly watery smile.

 

Soon enough Benji is snugged up against his Dad, burbling happy counterpoint to the music opening the Patriots/Skins game, blissfully ignorant of the surprise he is going to get.    Barnes has literally sprinted to what passes for their convenience store and cans of formula are stacked on the granite countertop.

 

“Just some nights, ok?”  Man (mom?) has his pride. 

 

Steve salutes them with a chip.  “Go…that’s an order.”   

 

Barnes drags him to his and Steve’s bed so that Benji’s fussing at two cannot wake him up.  Brock strips off and lays down in the unfamiliar sheets, on his right, staring at a tattered sketch of Buck upon the bureau. 

 

It feels hollow but doesn’t hurt.  Not yet.

 

He closes his eyes and forces himself to chill.  Sleep is what is needed desperately, but after that damn song, another nursery rhyme runs guiltily through his head.    

_Tinker, Traitor_

_Soldier, Sailor…_

_Rich man, Poor man,_

_Hit man, Thief.._

 

Something that might be a quiet sob escapes. 

 

 _Stop!_  He is not raising his boy on fucking Mother Hydra.  Not.  That is why they are all here…

 

He is   _still_ a mess but Buck, thank christ, seems to know just what he needs.   James’warmth spoons up behind.  Brock forces himself to relax, lets the arm around his waist lie smooth and hard and comforting.  The metal plates have warmed just nicely and the cooler but softer flesh arm has wound its way about his shoulder. 

 

K..got this.   Got his sister-mate and six hours of uninterrupted sleep ahead.  Breathe in, breathe out.  Somewhere between the quiet tones of Chris Fowler and Heather Cox and blaring product placement he drops off. 

 

\--------------------------

 

Brocks wakes, hours later, punch drunk on too-much sleep and aching full in the clear, pink light of dawn.

 

He gazes fuzzily at the unfamiliar  clock.  5:57.   No way.   Looks again.  The numbers have not changed.  _Hallelujah_.      

 

A warm sigh ghosts across his neck and it is then that he realizes why the morning ( _morning!)_ feels a little strange. 

 

Both arms wound lazily about his waist are flesh.

 

From somewhere down the hall a faint snuffling can be heard.  He does not move.  Not yet.  Laces his own finer fingers into Steve’s larger ones and refuses to think too far ahead. 

 

Sleep makes everything all right.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Waltz On, Til The Night Goes On](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11471658) by [Metal_fist_of_Hydra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metal_fist_of_Hydra/pseuds/Metal_fist_of_Hydra)




End file.
